


Suffer the Night by dragonnan

by dragonnan



Category: Psych
Genre: Blood, Buddies for life, Daddy comforting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epic Bromance, Father-Son Relationship, Friendship, Gen, Grizzly daddy, Knifeplay, Protectiveness, Rescue, Violence, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 03:04:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonnan/pseuds/dragonnan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> “That man... nearly murdered my son and his best friend. He may still succeed with one of them. You don't need to tell me about doing the job, Karen, but don't try to tell me you're doing everything you can.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
[Suffer the Night](viewstory.php?sid=3796) by [dragonnan](viewuser.php?uid=344)  


  
Summary:  

“That man... nearly murdered my son and his best friend. He may still succeed with one of them. You don't need to tell me about doing the job, Karen, but don't try to tell me you're doing everything you can.”

 

_**Entry for the 2012 Whumpathon** _   


 

  
Categories: [Season](browse.php?type=categories&id=2) Characters:  Gus, Henry, Shawn  
Genres:  Angst, Drama, Hurt/Comfort  
Warnings:  None  
Challenges: None  
Series: None  
Chapters:  6 Completed: Yes   
Word count: 14384 Read: 6160  
Published: April 08, 2012 Updated: August 31, 2012 

Story Notes:

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Lockdown by dragonnan

Author's Notes:

For Jenn - love you sweets!!

  


Location: police station

Whump: mental anguish, blunt force trauma

Toolkit: Gus, Physical attack

Recipient: Shawn 

 

_____________________________________________________________________   


 

Shawn's heels clunked and thudded as they bounced off the polished wood panel. He wiggled, feeling the instability of his perch as he started to slide again. An inch to the left was a white ceramic mug housing an assortment of sharpened objects. On his right was a wire rack filled to capacity with files and loose memos. Hunt and peck tapping stood in as counterpoint to his irregular heel beat drumming on the side of the desk.

  


“How about tacos? I bet Buzz would go pick some up. Unless he's out too. Is he out? I haven't seen him all day either.”

  


Henry scrolled a little further down the page. Two fingers pushed his glasses a little higher, then removed them completely so he could rub his eyes.

  


“Whatever, Shawn. I'm not really hungry...”

  


“I'm starved.” His son interjected, scratching his knee. “I could probably eat, like, six tacos. And nachos. Not cheapy ones either but the everything on em' kind. And we could get some horchata too.”

  


“Uh huh.” The report complete, he added his name at the bottom and sent it to the printer. A moment later it started to print out. Sitting back with his coffee, Henry took a sip and rubbed his eyes again – this time not bothering to remove his eyewear but instead, simply pushing his fingers up from beneath the lenses.

  


“Maybe we should get Quiznos instead. If Buzz gets a call on the way back the tacos will get all soggy.”

  


Henry stood to collect his report from the printer. “Not if you order soft shell.”

  


The thudding continued behind him as he walked across the bullpen. It was a quiet night, something he appreciated even though it was contributing to his son's distracted mood. Grabbing his report, Henry also found a second page beneath his own. He lifted it, face taking on the same expression as the frowny faced stick figure with the blocky text written above it declaring “I'M BORED!!!” 

  


Chucking the drawing into the wastebasket, he headed back to his desk. Shawn turned, wincing as his body twisted. “Did you just throw away my drawing?”

  


Henry rolled his eyes. “Not exactly the Sistine Chapel, kid.”

  


Of course Shawn would disagree. “That took me like, twenty minutes! I was thinking of expanding into psychic sketch artist.” Still aggrieved, he braced his hands to hop off the desk.

  


Henry took a step forward. “Woah, wait...”

  


“Ahh, God!” Stumbling backward a second after touchdown, Shawn wrapped his arms around his middle and held his breath. Continuing on towards his son, Henry placed his hands on his shoulders.

  


“Breathe.”

  


Shawn shook his head, though he still sucked in a breath. “It hurts.” He strained out, wincing again.

  


Henry smiled. “You've got two cracked ribs, champ. Part of the package.” 

  


Shawn groaned again before shrugging out from under his father's hold. Henry let him go, watching as he continued on to the waste basket to rescue his drawing. Even that simple act became a whole event as Shawn held on to the wall while bending his knees and inching his way down to the trashcan. Keeping his back stiff, Shawn stretched his fingers as far as he could and was just able to catch the extreme edge of his masterpiece. And then it was another long trip back to standing, one hand holding the wall the entire time.

  


Henry grunted as Shawn passing him on the way back to the desk.

  


“Happy?”

  


Scowling, Shawn brushed at the paper. “I'd be happier if it wasn't coated in old coffee grounds.” Rather than struggle back onto the desk again, he swiped his father's chair instead.

  


Letting him have it, Henry went to refill his coffee cup. He looked back at his desk as he walked, noting the officer standing casually nearby. The man hadn't moved position for the last four hours. Shawn, as he'd been doing for the past two hours, was ignoring him.

  


At the coffee counter, Henry picked through the day old offerings of powdered donuts and half a tin of fudge one of the officer's wives had brought in. The coffee itself was about an inch of lukewarm pond water clinging to the bottom of the pot. Giving up on the sweets, he really wasn't hungry anymore than Shawn claimed to be, he rinsed out the coffee pot instead and started a fresh one.

  


He turned his back on the pot once it started to fill. From where he stood he could see Shawn sitting at the desk, spine military straight as he sketched busily on what was probably the cover of one of Henry's incomplete files. But, like every other tactic he'd tried since being brought to the station going on twelve hours ago, this move wasn't going to set off any rants or lectures either. Not this time.

  


The smell of a fresh pot started to trickle through the bullpen, bringing bleary eyed late shifters like hyenas to a fresh kill. Filling his mug before the horde overtook him, Henry snagged a couple of donuts and returned to his desk. Shawn was still hard at work and didn't even look up when his father stopped beside him. Using a finger to slide a clean looking file near Shawn's elbow, Henry dropped the pastries on the surface.

  


Shawn kept sketching.

  


“Eat a donut. I'll ask Karen if there's someone available who can make a dinner run.”

  


“I'm not hungry.”

  


No, really? Kid had been bouncing back and forth from peeling his own skin with anxiety to shell shocked staring. He hadn't eaten since the picked over breakfast sandwich that morning and, in spite of his loud declarations just minutes ago, it was obvious his state of mind had shut down his appetite. 

  


Henry didn't blame him. The last forty-three hours had been a series of escalating disasters, each one seemingly worse in severity until...

  


Wiping his hand over his head, Henry continued on to Karen's office. Through the glass he could see that she was talking on the phone. However, when she saw him approach she waved him inside.

  


She turned away from the door as Henry stepped inside the office, her voice soft. “I know. I'll check in with you in the morning. Okay. Kiss daddy for me. I love you too, sweetheart. Night-night.”

  


Henry wasn't one to bask in the sentimental but the bit of private conversation tugged at him.

  


Karen turned her chair back to face him and folded her hands over her desk.

  


“How is he doing?”

  


Stepping further into the room, not yet ready to return to his job – one that had become so very literal in the past day, Henry took one of the chairs opposite the chief.

  


“About the same.” He didn't have anything to add to that, simply shrugging before allowing himself to slump down a bit in his seat. He was just so damn tired. Karen looked exhausted as well. She'd been at the station even longer than Henry – away from home and family. At least he had his son with him. His beliefs didn't often encompass the spiritual but after yesterday he was thanking God for that.

  


“Have you heard anything about...?”

  


Henry looked up again, then shook his head. “I called a few hours ago but he was still in surgery.”

  


His eyes tracked back to the floor. He licked his lips, the flat of his hands tapping against the arms of his chair. When he looked up again, he saw that Karen was staring down at her desk. A file was open in front of her. He knew he didn't have to ask what case she was studying. Nor was it even a guess to say she'd already read it cover to cover more than once.

  


“Any word from Lassiter?”

  


A sigh as her eyes pulled from the folder. “They haven't found anything yet. At their last check in they were still staking out the marina, but...”

  


Henry didn't need more than that. “But it's unlikely he'll be going back to the yacht. He could afford several yachts on just his cut alone. And if he really did kill Bellamy than odds are he has his take as well.”

  


“Or split it with his other partners. I know, Henry, but you know we can't just walk away from our only lead.”

  


“That man...” Henry huffed through his nose, his voice shaking, and staring at Vick as he forced some control. “That man... nearly murdered my son and his best friend. He may still succeed with one of them. You don't need to tell me about doing the job, Karen, but don't try to tell me you're doing everything you can.”

  


He stood, but so did Karen, walking around her desk to cut him off.

  


“Henry, you know damn well we're doing everything we can!”

  


Staring back at her, Henry pointed out the door towards the figure still seated at his desk.

  


“No, you aren't. Not as long as he's stuck here.”

  


He knew it was an unfair accusation even as he stalked back out of the room. Damn it, he'd been a part of the decision making process, in the first place, that had ended with Shawn trapped with him at the station.

  


Even so, it hadn't been an easy choice. Yes, he wanted to keep Shawn safe. But he also knew, as did all of them, that Shawn was the only one who'd actually seen their perp's face. 

  


Which was exactly why he was stuck with twenty-four seven armed escort in the most fortified building in Santa Barbara outside of the National Savings bank vault.

  


Shawn had finished doodling, by this point, and seemed to have moved on to construction. A starburst of coffee straws impaled one of the donuts which, in turn, held it suspended over what remained of Henry's coffee – missing at least half of its contents. On top of the donut, Shawn had begun to stack every desk accessory within reach. He was in the process of lifting a stapler remover to the top of the structure when Henry approached him.

  


“I don't think that will...”

  


Shawn's arm jerked at the sound of his voice and the entire contraption seemed to explode around him. Paperclips, coffee and mug, pens, pencils, donut, all cascaded across the desk. He yelped as hot coffee gushed over his hands and knees, then whimpered as his reaction jarred his injury. Stiffening, he held his arms away from his body and froze in pain.

  


Henry didn't dare touch him, instead yanking about a dozen tissues from his Kleenex box to mop at the dark liquid threatening his keyboard. Useless effort as the tissue became instantly saturated before disintegrating. At least the tiny tsunami had been slowed, buying him enough time to move delicate electronics, including his cell phone. The officer assigned to his son was kind enough to grab a roll of paper towels before returning to his post, a smile quirking one side of his mouth.

  


For his part, Henry wasn't feeling the humor. Not when he could actually see how much Shawn was hurting. Before he'd abruptly attempted speech at twenty-four months, something Maddie claimed he'd withheld simply to aggravate his father, he'd already mastered the art of exaggerating injury. Six months old, he'd had a full blown shrieking attack when Maddie had clipped one of his fingernails too close. For weeks afterward, he exploited those few seconds of discomfort. Whenever he wanted attention, his little face would screw up, he'd stick the wounded paw in his mouth, and bawl like the world was over.

  


It was a deception that had only grown in complexity with age. It had been especially exploited when he'd been shot the previous year. That first week of recovery, he'd driven his kid to the station to give his statement. Within twenty minutes he'd had Buzz fetching him snacks and the chief offering a pillow from her couch. The clincher, though, had been when they were preparing to leave the office. Shawn had fumbled at the door for about twenty seconds, fiddling with his phone in one hand while using the hand supported in the sling to wrestle with the handle. Finally, he'd turned back to the group behind him, pouting. It was Lassiter, of all people, who'd rolled his eyes before giving in and opening the door.

  


But no matter how good his acting may be, even Shawn couldn't generate a sheen of sweat across his forehead by will alone. And if he were faking the tremor in his hands, he'd have been more obvious about it, going for full body spasm instead of trying to hide it with clenched fists.

  


The desk was still tacky with spilled coffee but Henry didn't really care about that. By this point, Shawn's body was starting to unclench bit by bit. His spine remained stiff but after a few more moments, he let the held breath start to seep from between his teeth. Relief replaced some of the anxiety. Henry breathed out then as well before passing Shawn some of the paper towels he'd torn from the roll.

  


Unspeaking, Shawn wadded up the paper and started dabbing at the cooled liquid spattered on his hands and legs. 

  


Henry was trying to get around the awkwardness of apologizing – he hadn't meant to startle Shawn but it was embarrassing for both of them that he had. But before he could fumble his way though his remorse, Shawn brushed past the incident with an inquiry he'd been repeating all day.

  


“You heard anything new?”

  


Henry sighed and dropped soggy paper towels into the wastebasket.

  


“No. Nothing yet.”

  


Shawn's lips were tight across his teeth. He nodded while reaching across the blotter to fiddle with a string of paperclips he'd assembled earlier.

  


“He, uh... he... he's going to be okay though. Right?” He wouldn't look up though, choosing instead to begin adding to his paperclip chain. He hadn't insisted on going to the hospital for at least two hours. If his own injuries hadn't slowed him up so much, Henry was sure he'd be ping ponging off the ceiling trying to escape the station.

  


And Henry couldn't blame him. 

  


Finding him... finding the both of them like that had been...

  


“They're doing everything they can.”

  


How badly he wanted to say more. To give absolute assurance that everything would be fine. Winnie had tried to do just that when he'd last called, before Bill had been forced to take over the call. She'd started crying and hadn't been able to go on.

  


“He's a fighter.” Pithy sounding even in his own ears, but Shawn actually managed to smile. To nod as he continued to play with the little bits of metal.

  


“Yeah, he is.”

  


It was barely a second after Shawn spoke that the Chief's door opened and she walked quickly from her office. At some point between the time Henry had spoken to her and now, she'd run a comb through her hair and fixed her smudged eyeliner. 

  


“Henry, Shawn, I just got word back from Detective Lassiter. They caught them.”

  


Shawn stood, slowly, before snatching his father's arm to support a sudden wobble. “You...” He tilted his head, a smile bursting across his face. “Way to go LASSIE!” He shouted, pumping one arm.

  


The mood shift, from desolation to exuberance spread like a gasoline fire. In seconds, officers who'd been standing at watch, feet heavy against the floor, were grinning at one another. Though not a frenzy of celebration, the emotion of triumph had filled every face in the bullpen.

  


Henry looked at his son, not surprised to see the happiness already beginning to fade. Shawn looked back, the hand that rose to scrape through his hair making a subtle detour to brush beneath his eye.

  


“I'm... I'm, um, just going to his the restroom real quick. But after...”

  


“I'll drive you to the hospital.”

  


Shawn nodded. Though Henry was a little surprised Shawn hadn't insisted on leaving right then and there, he also understand why his son would need a few minutes alone. Patting Shawn on the arm as he limped past, Henry watched as he listed toward the wall, holding on as he navigated his way towards the bathrooms down the hall.

  


There was a twist of fear at having Shawn out of sight for the first time in nearly two days. It would probably take a little time, though, for that to fade. It had been the same way after the incidents with Yin and Yang. 

  


Karen was addressing her officers on how to proceed now that the threat had ended. Back to business as usual for most of them, while others were allowed to head home for the night. Henry wanted nothing more than to cart Shawn home and drop a blanket on him. Useless, though, to even attempt it. Shawn hadn't been sleeping well even before – and he wouldn't be sleeping at all, now, until he saw for himself how his friend was doing.

  


With one eye still focused on the hall where Shawn had vanished, Henry settled back to hear what Karen had to say.

  


End Notes:

The second half will be up soon!! I hope!!  


  
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.psychfic.com/viewstory.php?sid=3796>  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  

  
[Suffer the Night](viewstory.php?sid=3796) by [dragonnan](viewuser.php?uid=344)  


  
Summary:  

“That man... nearly murdered my son and his best friend. He may still succeed with one of them. You don't need to tell me about doing the job, Karen, but don't try to tell me you're doing everything you can.”

 

_**Entry for the 2012 Whumpathon** _   


 

  
Categories: [Season](browse.php?type=categories&id=2) Characters:  Gus, Henry, Shawn  
Genres:  Angst, Drama, Hurt/Comfort  
Warnings:  None  
Challenges: None  
Series: None  
Chapters:  6 Completed: Yes   
Word count: 14384 Read: 6160  
Published: April 08, 2012 Updated: August 31, 2012 

Reflections and Reflections by dragonnan

 

  


  


He could only use one hand to cup water and trickle it across his eyes, the other one busy holding him up over the sink. Drops streamed down the sides of his nose and off the short bristle on his chin. 

  


_Blood traveled in a gummy river from his nose to his jaw where it forked into his hairline. Shawn was desperate to stop the bleeding, to help, but he couldn't move. He couldn't even reach his cell phone to call for an ambulance. He was trapped, watching his best friend bleed._

  


Shawn spit out some of the water that had wet his lips. Not taking much care in the way he'd splashed his face, his hair had taken a hit and the dripping bits straggled across his forehead. He breath weaved and wobbled as he inhaled. He sniffed and rubbed at his eyes again, trying to wipe out the tremble working through his jaw. Thirty years worth of television, movies, and music at his disposal – any one of which he could pull to mind and replay back to back and in any order he liked. But the only image he could see... the only thing he could hear...

  


“ _What part about immortal god do you not understand, Shawn?”_

  


“ _You ever notice how dry it gets in here? Seriously, I think I hacked up a pint of slate.” Not that he was ignoring the argument, not at all. “Also, are you purposefully forgetting about Thor? I'm pretty sure he fits into that category too.”_

  


_Gus hadn't forgotten, though. Not from the way he snorted and gave Shawn a look like he was an infant just learning the rudimentary skills of thumb sucking._

  


“ _You also know that Thor is a liability, right? Yeah, he could probably go toe to toe but there's no way he's going to kill his own brother...”_

  


It had been sunny, then. The case file on his console between them and pinned beneath Shawn's elbow. His memory lasted all the way up to the moment he'd turned in his seat to take advantage of the gaping flaw in Gus's logic when...

  


_The fist slammed into his chest and all breath vanished. The strangled empty suck at the air had felt like he'd pulled in a lungful of concrete. Gus had shouted and then what followed had been a cry twisted into pain._

  


Shawn pushed the hair off his forehead. 

  


_He couldn't breathe, his body heavy against the seatbelt. He couldn't move, his efforts to even cry out for help eaten away by his useless lungs._

  


_He could hardly keep his eyes open, as though his lids were straining beneath the weight of packed sand. Gus... he had to help Gus..._

  


Another splash of water, cold trickles down his throat. Long enough that he'd stood staring down at the drain. He was the target, not his best friend. He, Shawn, was the one who should be in surgery right now. He should have been the one with a torn heart valve and a survival outlook measured by the hour. 

  


He shivered. It was his fault Gus might be...

  


The door bounced off the wall as someone else entered the bathroom. So maybe it wasn't the best place to catch a breather. The man made his way to the urinals, whistling as he took care of business. 

  


Shawn sniffed again and reached out for the paper towels. It wasn't much of a stretch but it still strained the muscles in his abdomen. He managed to pull a sheet from the dispenser, his breath tight as he dabbed the water from his face.

  


_He felt the wail of pain trying to push past his teeth, but he clamped down – focused on wiping the blood from Gus's eyes. It consumed him, trying to clear his friend's vision. So much blood would seal Gus's eyes shut like a sticky weld._

 

Behind him, the other man finished up and walked to the sink, still whistling. Shawn caught a flash of gold as the guy bumped on the faucet with his wrist. The happy melody petered out as he took in Shawn's slumped form.

  


“Rough day?”

  


Shawn didn't have it in him to elaborate. “You could say that.” He pushed off from the sink, balled up his paper towel, and pitched it in the trash. His bathroom companion nudged a hand dryer on with his elbow, his whistle resuming. Louder this time, probably to carry over the roar of forced air, as it shifted into casual singing. Freddie Mercury he was not, a flyby thought as Shawn finally made out the off tune tune. Another One Bites the Dust. 

  


_He coughed, choking on the grit laced inhale. Gus had only twitched once since the crash – his fingers jerking in a spasm before falling limp. Smoke lifted from the engine block and the sudden terror that they could catch fire overtook everything. They had to get out!_

  


His hand was coming to rest on the door handle when he acknowledged the frozen shiver than chilled from his hairline down through his limbs. The taste of dry dust hit his tongue and his belly felt loose – like it had filled with air, before suddenly cramping hard. Flash of gold... a flash of gold...

  


_He saw the reflection just past the window. Past Gus hanging limp over the steering wheel. A flash of gold – deep yellow metal reflecting off a capped tooth. There for barely a breath, for a grin, and it was gone..._

  


Behind him, the automatic air flow clicked as it switched off. The sound of hands brushing against denim – the hot air never quite dried all the water and always left the skin between fingers slightly damp. No other movement after that. His hand was still on the door – his knuckles sharp points where they pushed against the skin.

  


He could hear the man breathing behind him. He could hear the shift of his feet.

  


“I gotta say, I respect you.”

  


Shawn said nothing, but couldn't stop the jerk in his shoulders, a startle at the voice in spite of it being so quiet he had to strain to catch it over the soft hum of air conditioning. He swallowed but couldn't find any moisture.

  


Steps behind him and he tightened his hand.

  


“We're a lot alike, you know? Neither one of us can leave a job unfinished.”

  


Shawn whirled, forgetting pain for the seconds needed to swing at his attacker. But even forgotten, his body just didn't have the flexibility to react. The other man ducked, coming back just as fast as he grabbed Shawn by the shoulders. Twisting left, he pitched him hard against the tile wall. The sudden _crack_ split both lips and clipped his teeth on his tongue. Air rushed out and the dull thudding ache in his ribs splintered into a million screaming shards.

  


He squeezed out a tremble of sound, licking tongue flicking across cut flesh. He felt a rushing sensation of tipping to the floor and snatched at the wall, grasping the slick corner of a urinal.

  


He breathed in once, then turned towards a squeak of heels on grit. Knuckles impacted high on his cheek and his sketchy perch tore out from under him. He was on the floor for barely a second when he was hauled back up by his collar. Third button down on his shirt imbedding into his throat, he gagged and shot back an elbow, the only cry of pain coming from his own mouth.

  


The garrote of cloth eased as he stumbled back against his attacker, the relief at sucking in air vanishing when the pressure was replaced by a sharp edge sliding beneath his chin.

  


“No...!”

  


Sudden hammering stopped them both mid homicide. Shawn snuffed, lifting his head higher as the delayed sting settled into the groove left by the knife.

  


“Shawn? You about ready to go, kid?”

  


The handle began to push down and his attacker dragged him backward, around the dividing wall and towards one of the stalls. Shawn grunted, stiffening his legs as he grabbed at the arm wrapped across chest and the corner of the wall. The blade was still at home pressed into his neck.

  


“You're trying to hide? Dude, he knows I'm in here!” Shawn hissed.

  


Not bothering with words, the other man answered back by squeezing Shawn's ribs. Black agony dried up his sarcasm and hammered him with a blow of wild vertigo. 

  


“Shawn?” The door scraped open and the blade on Shawn's neck dug in, moving with the jerk of his swallow. 

  


He could hear his father's steps as he entered. He wanted to yell but the cutting force against his throat advised he resist the urge. He hummed a jagged note before that, too, was silenced with the smallest slice. Cold trickles into his collar held ninety percent of his focus. The remaining ten were remembering long ago games of hide and go seek with his best friend. Gus had always won.

  


“Hey, you in here?” The steps moved deeper into the room and Shawn was dragged further in as well – into the shadow of a stall door. Another squeak of floor, the cleaning crew really shirking the whole mopping thing, and his friend forced a stop.

  


“Who's there?”

  


Shawn stopped breathing. He had to – the knife pressed so hard he was certain the blood pumping through his jugular would be enough movement to cut himself open against the edge.

  


Seconds ago, the steps had been casual, the voice gentle but concerned. Now, though, was the stern command of a cop. But beneath the order, beneath the officer that demanded a response, Shawn could hear the barest inflection... of fear.

  


Suddenly Shawn felt himself being bum rushed forward, ripping his hand free from the wall – ripping nails to the quick. The double beat of their steps rounding the corner sounded like a thousand heels on the tile. His eyes snapped tight, throwing motion off its axis. But Shawn couldn't bear seeing his father's face – as badly as he _wanted_ to see his father's face.

  


Hard breathing, in his ears and in his chest. And then his father's voice, soft, intense... furious.

  


“Let him go.”

  


And then the response of his captor – an outrush of breath that fanned hot across the top of his ear, a scalding chuckle that destroyed any hope that this could end well.

  


“Well hey there, daddy.” 

  


The arm across his chest tightened until a deeper black flickered in the edges of Shawn's consciousness. 

  


“Your boy says hi.”

  
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.psychfic.com/viewstory.php?sid=3796>  



	3. Suffer the Night by dragonnan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  

  
[Suffer the Night](viewstory.php?sid=3796) by [dragonnan](viewuser.php?uid=344)  


  
Summary:  

“That man... nearly murdered my son and his best friend. He may still succeed with one of them. You don't need to tell me about doing the job, Karen, but don't try to tell me you're doing everything you can.”

 

_**Entry for the 2012 Whumpathon** _   


 

  
Categories: [Season](browse.php?type=categories&id=2) Characters:  Gus, Henry, Shawn  
Genres:  Angst, Drama, Hurt/Comfort  
Warnings:  None  
Challenges: None  
Series: None  
Chapters:  6 Completed: Yes   
Word count: 14384 Read: 6160  
Published: April 08, 2012 Updated: August 31, 2012 

Nothing Spared by dragonnan

 

  


  


Henry didn't move. 

  


His cell phone was on his belt, inches from his hand, but he didn't reach for it. 

  


He knew the man holding his son. 

  


“Dameon Ellis.”

  


Low life freelancer, suspected for a string of homicides since 85' but somehow always an alibi or a lawyer with enough grease to dodge prison time. Henry had personally interrogated the man on three separate occasions – each time risking dentures as he'd ground his teeth and watched the man leave the station with a gleaming grin and exaggerated wink.

  


Shawn's eyes had opened again when he spoke and Henry took just a few seconds to measure the emotion on his son's face.

  


He saw terror. 

  


He looked back at Ellis when the man shifted his feet and flexed the hand holding the blade against Shawn's throat. Another line of blood rolled from the tip and Shawn's eyes were lost behind his lids once more.

  


Ellis flattened his other hand against Shawn's chest and grinned.

  


“Hey, daddy. I can feel your boy's heart beating. It's going like a jackrabbit.”

  


Shawn arched his back, sniffing in a rough breath as the knife slowly began digging in, widening the narrow gash. 

  


“Stop! Just stop!” Hands out in front of him now, as though the display of peacemaking would be enough to set it all to right. Hostage negotiation had never been one of Henry's great strengths – a flagging skill he'd never had great cause to employ. A skill he'd have traded all his years of service to call upon now.

  


Another grin and Ellis pulled back just short of fatal. Shawn's balance wobbled and Ellis strengthened his hold – hugging him tight to his chest.

  


“Is it too cliché for me to say... so we meet again? Looking good Henry. But I thought you'd retired... too many criminals escaping your grasp...” He had a way of articulating every word, mulling over its flavor before speaking – enunciating with a crisp exaggeration.

  


Henry kept himself loose on the outside, though his gut had pulled in tight, knowing that any moment the door behind him could bang open. Another officer walking in on this would surely lead to Shawn's death.

  


“And I thought you'd holed up in Cuba.”

  


Ellis chucked. “Apparently we both could have benefitted from a little research.” His eyes widened, body tensing its hold. Henry was out of time.

  


Six feet of space; four steps between them that could have been a mile. The time to reach his son versus the time it took for Ellis to slash open Shawn's throat was a hideous calculation. 

  


The sound of his child's voice quivered a desperate cry as the blade first dented, then cut.

  


Collision of bodies as Henry slammed into Ellis – into Shawn, his son shouting as the force carried them all to the floor. 

  


Ellis grunted and dug in his toes, shoving back with Shawn still flattened between them. Henry forced his arm between Shawn's throat and the blade, feeling the cold burn as it dug into his forearm. 

  


“Dad!”

  


Shawn's cry was strained, but Henry couldn't spare a second as he grappled for the knife.

  


All muscle and sinew, Ellis twisted around his prey, one leg locking down on Shawn's midsection and his free hand lashing out to gouge at Henry's eye. The thumb nail dragged a rough scratch down his cheek but missed the delicate tissue behind his squinting lid. There was no luck in the miss, though. Squirming in the crush, Shawn freed one hand to latch on to Ellis's wrist just in time, possibly saving his father's eye.

  


The knife swung wildly between them, Henry finally getting his fingers on the handle just as Ellis sank his teeth into Shawn's hand. The agonized yowl rose well above the fairly restrained sounds of their struggle but Shawn didn't let go – not even when blood oozed between Ellis's teeth. 

  


Proving, again, his unexpected strength, Ellis suddenly rolled the three of them towards the row of sinks, putting his back against the wall and gaining that tiny bit of leverage.

  


“Why not just let this one go, huh, pops?” Ellis, never fully stable on his best day, grinned a Joker's smile of blood stained teeth as he began dragging his knife back towards Shawn's throat – dragging Henry's shaking hand right along with it.

  


“You hurt my son, I kill you.”

  


A laugh, then, deep in his chest.

  


“Daddy, I've already hurt your boy! So what are you going to do now, huh? You... you gonna put me down? Is that it? Go aaaall Dirty Henry on me?”

  


The sharp tip scraped against the stubble next to Shawn's ear, shook out in a thin ribbon a sketchy line of grooved flesh and beaded blood. Desperate to keep away from the knife, Shawn was forced to mash his head into the shoulder of his attacker. Smiling down at the man clutched against him, Ellis winked at Henry before leaned down to kiss his captive on the forehead.

  


“Say goodnight to your baby boy.”

  


In a violent tug, Ellis ripped the knife from Henry's fingers.

  


“NO!”

  


It tore through flesh – brilliantly red blood washed across Shawn's throat, soaking his shirt. 

  


A shock of seconds, silence, after the mess of grunts and scuffling. Three statues locked together, like marble warriors. Marble that bled red drops on the tile.

  


Shawn's eyes creaked apart bit by bit. His breath, staggered and reckless moments ago, had become almost lethargic. Murky attention rolled from the somewhere distant to the here and now – pulled relentlessly back until it brought the carnage into view. 

  


Until it locked on the surgical slice that had opened flesh, not in his throat, but across the creased and weathered skin of his father's wrist.

  


Henry never dropped his attention from Ellis's face – peering at him from behind the darkened mop of Shawn's sweat damp hair.

  


He heard Shawn's voice creak, stifled of breath but he was pretty sure of what had been whispered in a horrified rasp.

  


He ignored it. Ignored the fear on Shawn's face and the paternal address that had shaken from his lips. Ignored the pain just beginning to rise in his limb. And he bit down and ignored the weakness starting to seep out with the blood, rolling the length of his arm to soak into his pushed up sleeves.

  


There was no active thought involved in the next choice. Nothing but instinct mixed with choices that had narrowed to one. 

  


He lashed out with his damaged limb and grabbed the knife by the blade.

  


Pain shuddered through his palm as Ellis yanked backward. Henry squeezed tight, burying the edge deep into his flesh. A wild elbow smacked Shawn in the eye but his son barely wheezed a protest, instead returning an earlier favor by snapping his teeth around the bicep suddenly mashed across his face.

  


The shriek of pain blasted through Henry's ears. More than that, Ellis abruptly released his hold on the knife handle. 

  


“Son of a bitch!” Balling a fist, he got in a rabbit punch to Shawn's nose before Henry launched himself over his son and wrapped an arm across the man's throat. The tangle became a knot as Shawn's teeth, still sunk into one arm, forced him along for the ride.

  


Little space to roll that close to the wall, Henry's forehead cracked against the ceramic lining the underside of the sink. 

  


Twisting hard, Ellis managed to rip free from the bulldog grip of Shawn's mouth, his angle allowing a glancing chop to Shawn's already mangled throat. Gagging, Shawn was taken out of the fight while Henry brought a fist down hard on Ellis's temple. In the moments when the man was stunned, he finally got hold of his collar and waistband and hauled Ellis from Shawn's body. 

  


But he was wearing out fast. Even though Ellis had taken a vicious strike, Henry didn't have the strength to follow up with another blow. Instead, he found himself gasping on his side while blood seemed to pour from his gashed limb. Smears and swipes and even puddles surrounded him – more of it covering himself, Ellis, and Shawn.

  


And Ellis was starting to move. 

  


Dragging himself into a hunch, one arm holding himself up, his hand began sliding across the red spattered floor. Inches away, lay his knife.

  


No! Dammit, no! Henry panted, his throat tightening. How could he have lost so much strength so quickly? A moment ago he'd been wrestling the man, beating him! But now his every breath carried the weight of lead. His arms were trapped against the floor, his legs no better off. The only thing that carried any life was the panic racing his heart as Ellis wrapped his fingers around his weapon, and turned towards Shawn.

  


“Don't!”

  


Right that moment was when the door was supposed to burst open with a flurry of officers, guns drawn and instinctively apprised of the situation.

  


Right then was when it was all supposed to end in a dramatic save, nothing wrong with either of them but a few scratches.

  


But against probability, not so much as a janitor pushed through the door.

  


They were alone.

  


Ellis wasn't bothering with taunts this time. As he dragged his way across the floor, Shawn turned his head to watch the man approach. Even from ten feet away, Henry could see the fear kickstart in his eyes.

  


He'd made Ellis a promise earlier. If it killed him he planned to keep it.

  


Shawn was pressing his body into the wall, eyes wide with panic. Henry wasn't ignoring it this time. He saw his son. Saw the sweat bead up and roll down the side of his nose. Saw the tremor in the hand holding his throat. 

  


He saw all of this and the thousands of memories that went with it. It wasn't a second wind that poured speed through his limbs; it was pure possessive fury. 

  


The roll to his knees was an unremembered act.

  


There was only silence as his body rammed into Ellis from the back. Shawn gasped, shuddering as though he'd been the one struck, and mashed further into the corner as the two men collided. The knife, lost once more, skittered until it came to a stop against Shawn's heel.

  


Though taken by surprise, Ellis twisted enough to cram his palm into Henry's face. Teeth clacked together just missing his tongue as Henry felt his head shoved backward. They teetered as they fought, balance shifting back and forth between them.

  


The weakness was rushing back. The burst of energy, it seemed, had literally been just that. A burst. He was still losing blood; arm now a red sleeve, the tacky feel like glue between his fingers. And now that his adrenaline was fading, Henry was faced with the reality that it may have been his last rush.

  


Ellis was pushing him back – forcing him closer to the sink. There would be no leverage once he was pinned against the counter. If he could just buy enough time for Shawn to get out... He tried to grunt that order. Run, kid! But Ellis hadn't released his jaw. He couldn't even follow his son's lead and bite the fingers digging nails into the bridge of his nose.

  


Shawn... _Run, Shawn!_

  


He felt the counter starting to dig into his back. He was losing...

  


“Gaaaaah! _**Fuck**_!” The pressure against his skull was gone so fast Henry nearly fell forward. Ellis had turned from him again, stumbling hard, and finally Henry saw why.

  


The knife he'd dropped was now buried, halfway to the hilt, in the top of his right foot. Shawn's hand was still wrapped around it, his face bared in rage.

  


Swearing again, Ellis lifted his left foot to stomp his attacker. Balling both fists, knowing it was his last shot, Henry slammed Ellis in the back of the neck.

  


And watched as he crumpled, head bouncing on the tile, an inch from Shawn's legs.

  


  
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.psychfic.com/viewstory.php?sid=3796>  



	4. Suffer the Night by dragonnan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  

  
[Suffer the Night](viewstory.php?sid=3796) by [dragonnan](viewuser.php?uid=344)  


  
Summary:  

“That man... nearly murdered my son and his best friend. He may still succeed with one of them. You don't need to tell me about doing the job, Karen, but don't try to tell me you're doing everything you can.”

 

_**Entry for the 2012 Whumpathon** _   


 

  
Categories: [Season](browse.php?type=categories&id=2) Characters:  Gus, Henry, Shawn  
Genres:  Angst, Drama, Hurt/Comfort  
Warnings:  None  
Challenges: None  
Series: None  
Chapters:  6 Completed: Yes   
Word count: 14384 Read: 6160  
Published: April 08, 2012 Updated: August 31, 2012 

Nothing Safe by dragonnan

 

  


There was a part of Shawn that would have laughed.

  


Not the part breathing shallow, still, to keep the open mess of his throat from opening further.

  


Not the frantic part clamping both hands around the open mess of his father's arm, keeping all those wriggly veins together. The actual thought of wriggly veins was enough to catapult a chug of nausea from a stomach normally encased in steel.

  


The final appearance of their “back up”, some red shirt rookie suffering from an excess of fiber, stumbled on the scene right out of Hostel. First act was to draw down on the two victims holding themselves together without so much as a tube of super glue. 

  


A blink before recognition and the guy had fought through hot sweats to put in a call for all hands on deck.

  


A whole slurry of cops had damn near crawled from the cracks in the tile. With his fingers fighting to grip the slippery lips of skin that used to be his father's forearm, Shawn spent some seconds on two subjects of equally pressing urgency. First, where the hell had all those cops been before that very moment? The second, which occupied him somewhat longer, was to wonder if their outcry cop ever managed some personal time in an available stall.

  


Blood, there was blood everywhere. It stank of blood – thick and sweet, like raw steak going bad. Some of it his but most of it still pumping out between the clench of his fingers.

  


Second time in two days Shawn got off only slightly worse for wear while his trauma companion got the undeniable pleasure of bunking in ICU. He wondered if Gus would mind sharing a room with his old man.

  


His giggle fit strangled out in a chest freezing hiccup – breaths suddenly jagged and hard, like he'd sucked in a ball of smooth glass and trapped it just beneath his sternum.

  


He felt someone kneel beside him, someone whose voice had been speaking to him for the last several seconds but hadn't been truly heard over his own musings. Someone whose small hands covered his own – adding weight to his shaking pressure. 

  


Chief Vick was so tiny, he noticed. He'd never really thought about that before. How tiny she was. How tiny her hands were. She'd just had a manicure too. Wasn't her anniversary sometime that month?

  


“Shawn? Shawn, an ambulance is on the way. Please, you have to let us help you.” 

  


He nodded. Yes, he could use some help. But dad needed help first. There was a lot of go juice snaking out across the floor, sliding into the grooves in a red fractal pattern beneath their knees. Crazily, Vick was pulling at his hands. Did she not get what was happening?

  


“I'm fine, Chief. Help my dad. Look at his arm – that's so not normal, you know?”

  


Somehow she'd gotten her perfectly manicured nails under his palm and had started to pry. Another hand, thick and hairy with blunt and chewed nails, was shoving in where his had been bearing down.

  


“We are helping him, Shawn, but we need you to let go.”

  


He stared at her, fighting to keep the edges of skin in his grip. “Really? What, did someone switch out the donuts for magic brownies? How is it I'm the only one not being completely CRAZY right now!?”

  


His shout went into a far more warbling pitch than he'd intended. Chief had stopped pulling on his arm but she hadn't moved away from him either. The other pair of hands continued shoving beneath his own; heaving them up like a shovel working free a paving stone. 

  


When his hold broke, it shattered his floaty world of numbed sensation as well. Had there always been this much noise? He would have clamped both hands over his ears if there hadn't been fingers wrapped around his wrists to pull him back. More hands were fiddling around with the collar of his shirt. He ducked away, trying to see his father.

  


“Dad?” He coughed, wincing at how much that hurt all the way through his battered middle to his gouged neck.

  


Hands again, once more cutting across his vision. Another duck and weave, angry now with his view compromised by white gloves. He batted at the fingers poking below his jawline.

  


“Dude, quit!” He tried twisting, and felt some give in the hold, but a penetrating hurt bowled across his midsection and stopped him, breathless. He gulped, a shallow swallow with the rediscovered level of his pain in consideration.

  


He blinked, eyes foggy with running sweat, trying to see through the figures thickening around him. He could still see the shape of his dad on the floor, but couldn't see his face. He needed to see his face.

  


“Dad?” 

  


“Sir, I need you to keep still...” Lurch the paramedic hunkered on his right side. Where the hell had he come from? His oft touted “heightened observational blah blah” was slipping for sure if the man monolith had snuck under the radar.

  


Shawn flinched as an oversized paw mashed something with sticky edges against his neck. Worse still, the paw stayed right there, adding an exceptionally painful level of weight behind the application.

  


“aaaAAAAOW!” Neither zig nor zag aided him in any way as another, slightly less, hulking form dropped down on his left. A backward push with his heels ran him aground against the wall and did nothing to aid his escape. 

  


“Dude, how many c-cops can you fit in a bathroom? Give up?” He was talking fast. Really fast. Screaming fast. “Cause, seriously, there's a lot of cops in here. It's like a clown car or one of those London phone booths crammed with all the Dr Whos. Or Doctors Who... Who Doctors? That sounds like a band. Baba O'Rileeeeey...”

  


“Shawn?”

  


“Hm? Chief! You're a Who fan, right?” He grinned. “It's only teenage wasteland.”

  


Where had she come from? Wasn't she with his dad? 

  


His flippant, slightly breathless singing faded out with a confused scrub through his tangled scalp. No kidding there were a lot of cops in the room. Lotta cops, lotta EMTs, lotta bodies cramming into a too tiny space that was well past its weight limit. An oversized elevator about to plummet six stories to a bloody death. Who was he kidding? The blood was already there. He was sitting in his own personal pool.

  


“What's happening with my dad? Is he okay? Oh! There was a guy, uh...” He snapped his fingers wildly, eyes squinted to pull the face from recent memory, “Ellis! Demon, no, Dameon Ellis! He...”

  


“Is in custody,” Vick finished, her face going all kinds of angles as she eyed him down. “They're preparing to take your father to the hospital...”

  


“Not without me they aren't-”

  


“They're taking you too; that throat looks nasty-”

  


“I'm fine,”

  


“Oooh, you are far from fine.” She interrupted again, her voiced raised high enough to actually pull his attention from the hidden activity five feet away. “Shawn, I need you to calm down. We have to get you looked at and I need to get your statement on what, exactly, happened in here.” She crumpled her brows as she took that moment to let her view shift to the spattered floor – now further smeared from the multitude of shoes no doubt dragging red footprints through the station.

  


Shawn jerked away from the hands again. He tried to sit up as he saw his father, strapped tight to a gurney and dragging IVs, hoisted up as they started him towards the door. 

  


“Wait, my dad!”

  


“Shawn!” 

  


He stopped still as a pale arm lifted from the gurney to flatten against the door jam. The whole train slammed to a halt, the IVs swinging until one of the paramedics grabbed the bags to still them. Like the child in the classroom called out by his teacher for rowdy behavior, Shawn instantly stopped fighting. A stone would have had more movement in that second.

  


He couldn't see his father's face, but the hand on the door jam, gloved in red, had started to tremble. Then, suddenly, it dropped. 

  


“Dad!”

  


“We need to go!” Five men and the gurney pushed from the bathroom and Shawn was left struggling to breathe around the bag of sand in his chest. Unmoving since his father had called to him, he no longer pulled away from the fingers winding his neck with gauze – the sensation like being delicately strangled.

  


“Sir, can you stand?” Thor was skipping past the flowers and candy, going right to the goods as he lifted the hem of Shawn's shirt to poke two fingers along his ribs.

  


“Ow, OW!” He chose a breathless wheeze over the thread of sailor talk blooming in his throat. The listing daze he'd been sinking into shredded back under his renewed panic. “Dad?”

  


“Let's get him to a gurney. On three...”

  


Countdown somewhere to his left and explosive pain... everywhere... his eyes lost sight of his surroundings in the black he hid them in. If this was a weekly series or, at best, some slapped together piece of fiction, he'd abruptly lose consciousness at this point. It wasn't, and he didn't. 

  


His eyes opened again as the gurney started to roll, bumping hard over the lip of metal in the doorway. For a few seconds his brain scrambled to assemble familiarity and he wondered where Gus had gone. He remembered, as they hit another set of bumps on the way out the side exit, exactly where Gus had gone.

  


“Jules... I need to call Jules. Juliet O'Hara.” He clarified at the end, though it seemed to make no difference to the guy shoving him towards the ambulance.

  


“Try to relax, Shawn.”

  


Relax. Right. Relax while the bones in his chest shifted left to right to backward. Relax while his father might be gasping around his final breaths, bleeding, in another ambulance. Relax while his buddy, still, was under the knife. Or might be out now.

  


Or might be...

  


“Shawn, you need to try to slow your breathing. Can you do that for me?”

  


Another order. Another demand no matter how much it was painted up like a request. So he tried, because he'd had his throw-down for the week and there was a limit to how much bruising he allotted himself. It wasn't working, but this was one of those “it's the thought that counts” things because thinking was the best he could do. And the best he could do was fumbling in the dark with a wet candle. He couldn't even tack together an appropriate reference for his jumbled skull baggage, “Yippie kay yay yay” being the only phrase tumbling behind his temples. 

  


More bumping and clattering as his rolling bed rolled up and into the red and white van parked only feet from the stairs. A flyby observation why they'd chosen this exit because of the ramp leading down to the sidewalk.

  


He shut his eyes at the flashing lights reflecting – ultra bright in the dark and a call to feed for every moth and mosquito in the city. He hadn't been in the vehicle two seconds before a school of blood suckers were drawn to his open wounds. So, okay, the moths weren't actually chewing on him but they seemed to find his shirt a thrilling playground as they bumbled across the wrinkled cloth.

  


Two of the EMTs climbed in the back with him while the other shut the doors. Another few seconds and the sound of the siren wound up with the jarred motion of the vehicle taking flight. Metaphorically. 

  


Tied down to the rocking bed, there was little fight he could offer as needles jammed in and fluids in various shades of clear started drizzling into his body. It was sorta like watching his father prepare barbeque ribs. Right now he was being seasoned and basted. And that was about as far as he wanted to go with that analogy. Besides which, now he was worrying about his father all over again.

  


They made great time what with the roads not exactly bumper to bumper that time of night. It was dizzy/scary having his stretcher shoved out the back of the ambulance and floated towards the ER doors. Not a new experience and not even because of the job hazard equation – his first time bunking in the emergency room taking place at the breakable age of two.

  


Still, at two he'd been thrilled by the ride and all the freaking NEW of everything all around him – lights and dials and even the common and mundane and everyday things like too starchy sheets had seemed so much like ALIEN things. Alien in the coolest and most adventurous way and he'd worn his sheet like a cape even when they'd put him on the moving bed that had been his spaceship and shot him through the core of that big white donut.

  


Actually another ride through that donut wouldn't be so bad. _Eating_ a donut wouldn't be so bad either. Man, he hadn't eaten in ten years.

  


And then he remembered eating sour Gummi worms with Gus two days ago and he wasn't hungry anymore. 

  


Where was his dad?

  


When his rolling bed stopped rolling, he'd been installed in a semi personal corner with a curtain half-heartedly scrolled across the the wall that was his doorway. This first group of caretakers handed him over to a floor nurse with a pink scrunchie holding the dark brown frizz off her face. She smiled at him – standard hospital greeting for the freshly interred, and started things off by taking his blood pressure. Questions then; was he on any medications, how was his breathing, where did it hurt? 

  


“Where's my dad?”

  


The nurse made notes on her paperwork. “He's probably in the waiting room, but I'll have someone check on that for you.”

  


Frustrated, Shawn shook his head. “No, he's...”

  


The curtain door opened again, this time a tall man in green scrubs entered. “Hello, Shawn? I'm Doctor Phillip Greaves. I see from your chart that you were here earlier this morning. You had some injuries to your ribs?” He touched as he spoke, pressing the pads of his fingers into the ripe bruises flushed across Shawn's midsection.

  


“Ye-eesss...” His words wheezed with the pressure, a thick ache spiked into agony on contact. Everything stiffened, limbs and chest – breath solidifying. A light tap against his sternum opened his eyes to the doctor.

  


“I need you to keep breathing, I know it hurts but try not to pant.”

  


Air flicked in and out – he'd made no promise about the speed of his chest ripping gasps and resumed the bellowing pace as the fingers felt him up. Same mutterings he'd heard that morning. Fracture this, bruised that, something something plesiosaur...

  


“I'm going to order a CT scan. You may have a dislocated rib and I'd also like a fresh look at those fractures given your scuffle.”

  


Scuffle? He tried to scrape together an analogy to express how much an understatement that was, but was sidetracked by a coughing fit that nearly eviscerated him. Pillows at his back and a slow adjustment to the angle of his bed helped slightly, but he still clenched the muscles in his belly. 

  


The exam, no surprise, moved on to the main event ringing his throat. That he hadn't been flung straight into surgery hinted that he wasn't gushing jugular juice. That it had drawn so many fans in the last half hour suggested he wouldn't get off with a couple of glitter bandaids and an Advil. 

  


“This is going to need stitches.” 

  


Eye rolls were so last Wednesday, but Shawn got by on a stiff grunt as something in his neck stung under the tug of stuck bandaging. 

  


“Great, perfect, I keep a sewing kit in the glove compartment,” he backhanded the fingers as the came back with a wad of soaked cloth, “where is my father? Henry Spencer; he was brought here just before me – his wrist was, was cut and he was banged up and...” gulping and hard breaths cut off his diatribe but he saw the doctor nod towards a nurse.

  


“Debbie will check into that for you and will let you know as soon as she has some information.” 

  


Shawn didn't swat at him when he pressed the cloth against the blood glued gauze. A wince, part from pain and part from the icy drizzle that skated beneath the collar of his shirt, and he nodded. 

  


“My friend, Gus. He's here too. He was in surgery. I don't... I don't know if he...” Harder, even, to finish that request. His phone had been on him all night but still no call. But that was good, right? If something had... had happened... they'd have called him. Right?

  


“I'll let Debbie know to check on him as well. What's his name? Gus...?”

  


“Gus- Burton Guster. His parents are here too. They have my number and were going to call...”

  


The doctor nodded. “Now I'll need you to stop talking for a few moments while I look at your injury. Try not to move, alright?”

  


Shawn said nothing and closed his eyes. He wrapped his fingers in the sheet of his bed as the gauze was eased away from his skin – tugging, soaking, and more tugging in a process that filled his whole life. 

  


And with that, there was nothing that remained between himself and the panic he'd hastily crammed beneath a bowl of caramels.

  


A mantra. He needed one of those. Om, or maybe the lyrics from The Wall. 

  


A weak joke. It wasn't funny and it made his resistance, if anything, even weaker. The panic was going to eat him alive and there was nowhere he could run, no escape, no hiding place. He had to get away from it. He could feel it choking him...

  


...be okay... he'll be okay... they'll be okay. Gus would be okay. His dad would be okay. Gus would be okay and his dad would be okay.

  


Shawn breathed out, a heavy expression that carried the feeling of something black along with it.

  


Huh. Guess he'd found his mantra after all. 

  


Gus would be okay and his dad would be okay.

  


Rinse and repeat.

  


  


  


End Notes:

So so sorry for how long this took!  And SO many thanks for the reviews and prodding! One more chapter, I think, and this will be done haha!  I hope you enjoyed! :)

  
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.psychfic.com/viewstory.php?sid=3796>  



	5. Suffer the Night by dragonnan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  

  
[Suffer the Night](viewstory.php?sid=3796) by [dragonnan](viewuser.php?uid=344)  


  
Summary:  

“That man... nearly murdered my son and his best friend. He may still succeed with one of them. You don't need to tell me about doing the job, Karen, but don't try to tell me you're doing everything you can.”

 

_**Entry for the 2012 Whumpathon** _   


 

  
Categories: [Season](browse.php?type=categories&id=2) Characters:  Gus, Henry, Shawn  
Genres:  Angst, Drama, Hurt/Comfort  
Warnings:  None  
Challenges: None  
Series: None  
Chapters:  6 Completed: Yes   
Word count: 14384 Read: 6160  
Published: April 08, 2012 Updated: August 31, 2012 

All Hours by dragonnan

Author's Notes:

I'm a horrible horrible wretched terrible slacker!! I'm SO sorry it took this long to provide an update!! In any event, I won't waste any more time with my self punishment.  Please enjoy!

___________________________________________________________________   


 

  


  


He was awake. No matter that the thought was completely obvious, it was also required. Awake, and even alive – he noted. He wasn't feeble. Not yet. It was ingrained in him to take stock and develop a plan of action before, actually, acting. Ironic that it was neglecting to do just that which had ended him in ICU. Yes, he knew where he was. There hadn't been a great deal of confusion after he'd blinked out the spiderwebs. 

  


He was alone.

  


He knew without looking; there was just a feel to an occupied room. The only thing he felt, though, was the medicinal bleachy fan of dry air on his skin. No flowers on the nightstand. No cards. No teddy bears dressed up in cop gear.

  


He'd either been there a short time or an extremely long time. Given the firm muscle tone in his arms and the fact that he couldn't feel any new wrinkles on his face after a quick check, he was betting on the former. 

  


Where was Shawn?

  


A thought that should have been the first, now it was _all_ he could think about. Memory lurched around but he had a solid snapshot of his son slumped next to the tile wall, hand clamped over a throat seeping blood.

  


Daytime beyond the shaded windows but it was a hazy light – overcast more than likely given the amount of rain they'd had that week. But still plenty of light to pick out the IV jutting from his arm. His thickly bandaged arm. Memory trickled in a bit more, then. The knife wicking between them as they fought. The blade tip swinging towards his son. His own arm thrusting before the swipe of metal – skin slicing open. Bleeding.

  


Where was Shawn?

  


He gripped the IV. Even that small touch stung as the needle jostled beneath the skin. He clamped his teeth together and yanked, grunting at the sudden and very sharp pain. Worse than he'd imagined it would be. And he'd thought Shawn was just exaggerating, as usual, when he'd done the same to his son. Rubbing his palm against the inflamed mound of bleeding flesh, he noted an apology might be needed. 

  


Next to go were the sticky round disks welded to his chest; little reddened circles left behind on his skin. And then he hit on a snag. He'd felt the tube bumping against his leg when he'd moved but hadn't thought anything of it until he'd tried sitting up. A movement filled with wobbling side to side, it had also brought a sharp pain in his groin. A catheter. He had to see his son. Had to... 

  


Rapping knuckles on wood stopped him just as he'd begun to reach for the slender tubing. He threw the blanket back across his lap as the nurse pushed inside.

  


“Well good morning!” She grinned at him, letting the door hang open behind her. The smile flipped to concern, though, when she noticed the discarded hardware dangling off the sides of the bed. “Oh, goodness, what happened here? You aren't supposed to remove these.”

  


He held back the urge to smack her away, she looked fragile enough to snap under a hard glare. Instead, he pulled away from her as she reached for the yanked IV.

  


“My son was injured. I need to see him.”

  


She reached for his arm. “I'll see if I can find him for you but first I need to get this IV back in...”

  


Henry jerked from her fingers a second time, nearly taking her nails with the motion. “Shawn Spencer. He has a gash in his throat, a couple of busted ribs, and a habit of attracting assassins to his hospital room. Now, either you take me to see him right now, or I moon this whole place looking for him.”

  


Nurses, like cops, were well trained in dealing with any variety of threats and irrationality. Past experience was no aid to him as the more he pushed the more likely sedatives would be introduced. Delicate as tissue, the young woman threatening a needle didn't look likely to bend regardless of how outlandish his escape attempts.

  


So when the next knock brought in a pair of uniformed friendlies in the forms of Lassiter and O'Hara, Henry was more than willing to accept their backup. 

  


Lassiter, less adept than Henry at peace keeping, wisely deferred to his partner for making nice – a process of a few smiles and a handful of promises. IV restored and a wheelchair procured, Henry was delicately eased from bed to rolling chair. Weakness shook his limbs and even the movement from lying to sitting brought a lump of nausea to the back of his throat.

  


With the sincere vow that they'd have him back to his room in an hour – sooner if he grew tired – the two officers pushed Henry out of the room and down the hall towards the elevators.

  


Lassiter was behind, pushing the chair. Far too slowly for Henry, who felt as though his muscles were trembling from his bones. Juliet walked on his right. As they reached the elevators and she bumped the button he pulled himself together to ask what had been crushing him into silence.

  


“Shawn... have you...?”

  


Juliet pulled her hands together. “He's been sleeping quite a bit the last couple of days...”

  


_Couple of days?_

  


“...but he was a bit more alert this morning. The doctor said he should be okay in a few weeks. He just needs to take it easy.” He saw her worry, though. And again, after times unnumbered in counting, he wondered what sort of beseeching had taken place for this young woman to agree to date his son.

  


Up two levels; Shawn had only been in ICU for a few hours before being transferred to a shared room on the third floor. If he'd had the strength, Henry would have taken charge of his own progress – for a long-legged fellow Lassiter was dragging his feet in spectacular style.

  


Juliet reached the door first and knocked. With no response on the other side, she pushed it open. “Shawn?”

  


Dropping his hands from the wheelchair handles, Lassiter brushed past his partner. “Oh for the... Spenc... Where the hell is he?”

  


Nearly a casualty of a hit and run, Lassiter barely lunged out of the way fast enough – the right handle of the wheelchair burning a welt across his hip nevertheless. Henry paid little attention to the bundle of curses as he forced the door wide. Two beds. But only one contained an occupant – a man in his twenties who looked up at all the ruckus.

  


One bandaged hand lifted up in a flip of a wave. “Hey. You lookin' for S.S. Mayhem?”

  


Henry wanted to rub his forehead; relish in the familiar blend of relief and exasperation; knowing in that exact second that his son was perfectly fine. Instead, he sighed and sank back into his chair.

  


“His name is Shawn. Do you know where he went?”

  


The young man shrugged and dug a fingernail between two molars. “Said he was gonna visit an old war buddy. Hey, if you see him remind him he promised to bring back waffles and lime Jell-O.”

  


Juliet smiled at the kid while Lassiter bullied back out into the hall, paused, cursed, and returned with a lethal glare to re-appropriate the handles of Henry's wheelchair. The shove into the hall nearly popping vertebrae out of alignment, they made it four steps before Lassiter stopped again.

  


“Where the hell are we going?”

  


Henry rolled one shoulder and felt a creak. “Room 204.”

  


Lassiter's not quite under his breath commentary carried them all the way back to the elevators, something about not signing up to play musical Spencers, before he was shushed by Juliet.

  


Henry had nothing to say as they traveled back down. He didn't know what to anticipate as there'd been no opportunity to snag a nurse for information. He knew his son was awake and well enough to mobilize. Not that Shawn ever did well staying put even when hospitalized. He felt no exasperation, though, at that thought. He couldn't even manage long-suffering humor.

  


_A face, panicked and bloody, as a knife dragged at the skin of his throat. Creasing small wrinkles before it sank deep and started to cut._

  


He hadn't been able to protect his son. Not even by bringing him to the safest place he knew. In many ways the station was more his home than the house by the beach. Given the memories each contained. One filled with comrades and the other with ghosts. Maudlin wasn't his style but he couldn't lie that those years alone had been stacked with nights unnumbered of sleeplessness. Listening to his own breathing and the creaks of the settling structure as they both shuffled closer to old age. He'd missed his son. Losing Madeline had been hard but losing Shawn...

  


It hadn't been for the fishing that he'd moved to Florida.

  


Hating the contraption that carried him, Henry squeezed the arm rests in his hands as the moved down the hall. He could see the door ahead of him. Juliet sped just enough to reach it before them. She knocked, as before. Henry could hear a reply through the wood and Juliet pushed down the bar handle.

  


The door opened inward. Lassiter pushed him over the threshold. He saw his son.

  


Weary, bruised, bandaged, his kid was hunched next to the single bed. Private room, but that was to be expected. The occupant under the covers was asleep. Juliet spoke softly behind him, though Henry missed her words. And then she and her partner backed out of the room and closed the door.

  


Henry rested loose hands in his lap, his arm throbbing in counterpoint to the raw ache in his stitched hand. He shouldn't have held so tightly to his chair but he couldn't have helped it if he'd wanted to.

  


“Shawn.”

  


No instant response. No turn of the head. Shawn stared down at the form on the bed, one hand brushing the back of his fingers over a tiny portion of unbandaged scalp.

  


“He made it through.” He said, before rubbing his other hand under his nose.

  


Henry nodded. “So did you.” 

  


Shawn was fighting. His jaw trembled before muscles clamped it still. He sucked in a staggered breath and licked his lips. His left hand never stopped moving – soft action smoothing repeatedly over that single patch of bare skin.

  


“He...” He gulped, blinked, and sniffed. 

  


Wishing Lassiter had at least pushed him as far as the bed, Henry ground his teeth in pain as he forced the wheels of his chair into motion. Only a few feet but he felt sweat damp at the small of his back in that short distance.

  


Shawn was in his own world and didn't shift his attention from Gus. Exhausted, clearly, but Henry knew sleep would not be coming soon, or easily, for either of them. It wasn't over yet. The threat was behind bars but the damage was done. 

  


Close now, wheelchair positioned at a slight angle, he was able to place one hand against Shawn's back. A hard, shaking breath followed the touch. His son finally looked at him. Fear had stripped the color from his cheeks – left a sunken bed of gray beneath bloodshot eyes. It was a ruin of emotion and heartbreaking to see – knowing he could do little to ease it.

  


Hitching back whatever tried to rise to the surface, Shawn turned back to the sleeping man on the bed. He nodded at his friend and pulled a smile from somewhere that wasn't shut in the room with them.

  


“He looks good, yeah? The doctor said his white blood count is better and his pressures are, like... better...” he stumbled. Rapid ramble struck against medical dialogue and the collision left him trapped with more words than his chest could contain. Expecting a regroup and something radically inappropriate that he'd already vowed to accept no matter how off-color, Henry wasn't prepared when Shawn suddenly leaned forward and pushed his face into his palms. 

  


He made no sound beyond a wet drag of oxygen, but his body was overwhelmed with bone deep shudders.

  


The moment Henry's arm pulled the trembling form against him, Shawn began to sob – wrenching, thick gasps of air.

  


He couldn't comfort him with words because he just didn't have any left. 

  


They'd both reached their end. Nothing left to give but anguish. 

  


He held his son until the snuffles faded to deep breaths. Until his arm started to first ache, then grow numb.

  


But he didn't let him go.

  


After feeling for days that he'd been losing him a piece at a time, he couldn't find it within him to release his grip. 

  


At some point, he fell asleep; his forehead tipped against his son's scalp. Waking again, maybe twenty minutes – what felt like twenty hours later, he found himself incapable of moving his neck. Stiff couldn't cut the surface of the discomfort he was in. 

  


Shawn was deep under and didn't move as Henry started to slide away from him, rotating his shoulder and hearing it creak. His back was in agony as he pushed straighter and he hissed as he carefully began easing himself back into the cushion behind his spine.

  


He stopped moving when he heard a faint rustle. He hadn't meant to wake Shawn – no clue how much sleep his son had or hadn't managed while he himself had been unconscious. But glancing left, he realized Shawn hadn't budged from the crumpled fold he'd slumped into.

  


When the rustle repeated, Henry was able to place the location. It was the crinkling of a papery stiff pillowcase. 

  


His wheelchair was close enough to the bed that he was able to hang an arm over the railing to press his hand over the fingers just beginning to crawl along the bedding. The eyes that had been heavily blinking; bleary rolls taking in the dark shadows of the room, slowly worked their way towards the man at the side of the bed.

  


Henry, feeling a shake in his throat and no ability to hide it, smiled with a rush of joy he hadn't felt in nearly a week.

  


“Hey, kid. Welcome back.”

  


  


  
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.psychfic.com/viewstory.php?sid=3796>  



	6. Suffer the Night by dragonnan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  

  
[Suffer the Night](viewstory.php?sid=3796) by [dragonnan](viewuser.php?uid=344)  


  
Summary:  

“That man... nearly murdered my son and his best friend. He may still succeed with one of them. You don't need to tell me about doing the job, Karen, but don't try to tell me you're doing everything you can.”

 

_**Entry for the 2012 Whumpathon** _   


 

  
Categories: [Season](browse.php?type=categories&id=2) Characters:  Gus, Henry, Shawn  
Genres:  Angst, Drama, Hurt/Comfort  
Warnings:  None  
Challenges: None  
Series: None  
Chapters:  6 Completed: Yes   
Word count: 14384 Read: 6160  
Published: April 08, 2012 Updated: August 31, 2012 

A Perfect Spot for a Bow by dragonnan

 

  


Shawn had been staring for hours. Gus looked exactly the same in spite of dad insisting he'd woken up – if just for seconds. Winnie and Bill had been called and they'd rushed back to the hospital to spend time with Gus while Shawn and his father had been hustled to separate appointments to see to their own healing. But it was night, now, and Winnie and Bill long since sent on their way with promises to be back in the morning. Dad was sleeping now as well, in his own room regardless of his threats of legal action should the nursing staff insist on carrying out their duties. They'd made the same try with Shawn, who'd immediately complied, only to apply American ninja skills to sneak back to Gus's bedside minutes later. His buddy was doing a phenomenal job playing Snow Black in her glass casket. Not that Shawn planned on kissing him to wake him up. Well, not without a mouthful of Tic Tacs first. 

  


He winced through a swallow and reached up to rub his throat before stopping himself. Didn't need to open any stitches. Again. Sucked that they had to itch though. He wondered if Gus itched. Probably. But Gus was... asleep. Asleep and maybe didn't feel the itch in his head. Or his chest. Did his heart itch? Shawn's fingertips delicately touched against his own chest. He couldn't remember the surgery long ago that had fixed the broken parts inside. He'd been a toddler at the time but that whole event was a white fog. He could remember everything else, though. He could remember his favorite stuffed animal had been a frog hand puppet named Green. He could remember his mom buying extra boxes of Otter Pops cause her finicky son only liked the grape ones. He could remember giggling when his father tickled him. Giggling until he couldn't breathe. Gasping. The giggles disappearing in pain... fear... And then he remembered being in a hospital room and his parents next to his bed. His mother had been crying.

  


Legs shifted under the sheet and Shawn stilled. He watched the breaths, so many days now in that same steady cadence, suddenly deepen. A long pull of air, lifting the scarred chest, and Gus's eyes pinched tight in pain. He coughed, groaned. His eyes made rolling motions beneath his lids.

  


“Gus? Hey, Gus?”

  


Both of them were wincing. Shawn, as he pulled himself close and Gus as he tried to push away at whatever was tickling him awake. His long, tap-dancer's toes curled and gripped at the sheet hung over the end of the bed.

  


Shawn leaned close, an arm braced around his middle. He watched as every inhale grew deeper, faster. 

  


“Gus?”

  


A sucked in breath through a wrinkling nose and the first, tiniest crescent of brown peeked beneath a fluttery lid.

  


“That's it, buddy. Open up them peepers.” Cheerleader squad had nothing on the encouragement Shawn could bring to the table. He would rah rah every blink and flicker till Gus was back to his candy munching, drug selling, assistant Lassie baiting best.

  


The groan wasn't a great first reply but the cheek splicing grin still cut Shawn's face in half.

  


“Come on, Gus. That's it, that's it, that's it. Little more. No half assing, I want full moon!” He stopped, rewound, grimaced. “Okay, that came out totally...”

  


Coughing and more groans cut him off and he fumbled behind him for a glass until, inevitably, his blind feeling knocked the plastic wrapped cup to the floor where it bounced and cluttered itself beneath the rolling table.

  


“Maaan...”

  


“Mr. _'cough'_ Spencer?”

  


Shawn gaped, horrified.

  


He. Did. Not.

  


He barely held back from a retaliatory weenie punch only be audibly reminding himself, in a rushed whisper, that Gus was injured, drugged, and liable to slug back once he'd regained motility.

  


“Dude... I think... you mean mo... mobility. Motility is...”

  


“Gus! You're alive!”

  


Those beautiful cocker spaniel eyes were finally open... sorta. Watering and blinking and seemed to be trying to bring the bedside lamp into focus. Shawn moved left until his face overlapped the cream colored shade mesmerizing his woozy pal.

  


Close enough that he could see pupils dilate as the light was abruptly removed. Gus blinked a few more times. And then he sighed out a breath littered with the smell of medication and very stale jerk chicken.

  


Shawn scrunched his nose. “You kiss your mom with that mouth?”

  


Gus rolled his face sideways into his pillow, wincing as he lifted one hand to his busted scalp. 

  


“Every day. Mmm... tell me my car wasn't totaled.”

  


Shawn rubbed the back of his neck. “Um...” He wasn't prepared to answer that. Well, back up. He wasn't prepared to concoct a delicately crafted scenario that _didn't_ end with the Blueberry as a totaled hunk of metal and plastic bleeding a pool of motor oil and pina coloda smoothie on the concrete. 

  


As was his mode when faced with an uncomfortable dialogue, Shawn chose tact over fact.

  


“Squashed like a eyeball under a cement truck, buddy. But no worries; I'm sure the city will pay for it. Eventually. Maybe a couple of months; definitely before next year...”

  


Gus started making that airless vacuum sucking sound; one hand snatching up to his throat while the other clawed at the sheet.

  


Shawn scratched his knuckles before realizing his time could have been better spent kicking himself between the ass cheeks. Well nobody had ever accused him of being particularly delicate with his delivery.

  


By the time his remorse had fully matured into glowing green guilt, Gus had been reduced to whimpers and gasps interspersed with “company car”. Shawn's attempts at soothing had rapidly plummeted South – burning wreckage of his consolation littering the ocean where the sharks waited to drag him under.

  


More importantly, though, was that the threat level had just bumped up to orange. All those flashy alarm lights would ultimately call the evil, angry night nurse whose first move would be to toss Shawn out on his ass. And that just couldn't stand. He'd invested too much into being there for his buddy after nearly getting him... well, after all that ugliness last week. 

  


This called for extremely extreme measures.

  


“Gus, buddy, I need you to breathe with me.” He shut his eyes, fighting the next part out. Fighting. _Jeez, just say it!!_ “Lame-ahs. Come on, man, suck it hard. In through the Super Smeller and out through the pie hole.”

  


He'd die for his best friend. He'd also die for a chance to swing across a glittering stage ala Ted Nugent and belt out his original single, “Love by the Pineapple Lamp”. Though neither was here nor there the facts stood that if he'd willingly allow his life to seep away for such petty things, the least he could do would be to encourage Gus through his labor pains.

  


“Almost there, Gus, almost there. You can do it. Aaaand PUSH!”

  


“I... am not... _'gasp'_... Shut up, Shawn!”

  


Shawn patted the hand closest to him. Gus jerked it back to swat him away.

  


The extremely loud _SMACK_ jarred Shawn into a shocked second of silence. His eyes flicked from the beige wall to his glowering yet suspiciously smug pal.

  


“Holy crap! Did you just bitch slap me??”

  


Gus winced, his wicked hand rising up to press into his eyebrows. “Umph... you ate my... tapioca!”

  


Shawn's eyes then scrolled towards the empty bowl apparently not hidden enough behind the box of Kleenex. 

  


“Yeah well, you should be grateful. I think it was bad; it was full of all these weird lumps and whatnot.” He sniffed, rubbing the contusion distorting his jaw. High time for a note to self about getting between a hungry Gus and a bowl of bumpy pudding.

  


The spat could have gone on far longer. Had they not been mostly wrecked at the moment, it likely would have dragged into the following week. Certainly would come up during the minutes in their quarterly meeting, aka “Shawn's Unnecessary Expenditures Lecture”.

  


But ever since the Bee debacle of '06 there'd been a silent, unspoken, and also mum vow that when one or both parties were incapacitated, Capital Punishment was to be postponed until an acceptable and mutually agreed upon level of healing had taken place. Granted, they frequently broke that vow but only in the case of extreme circumstances, like lives were at stake or because Gina had called and Gus just couldn't handle her animal magnetism. She was the Goddess of the Cheesecake Factory! How could that be anything other than the perfect date for his melted Malt Ball of cocoa heaven?

  


“Hey, Shawn?”

  


All thoughts of previous disaster flittered into nothingness and Shawn's hand slid down from his shoulder with barely a notice that he'd been rubbing it. It finally pulled across his mind that he should probably let a nurse or doctor or the old guy in the next room know that Gus was awake.

  


He'd add that to his note to self once he could pin down a yellow Post-It with the light blue lines.

  


Gus pushed up. Well, tried to before he winced; and then Shawn winced and tilted the bed a tiny bit instead. The look of easing strain on Gus's face made him swallow, suddenly, around something that sorta hurt in his chest.

  


“Yeah?”

  


A few breaths. Gus was falling asleep again given the way his lips were puckering the way they did when he was tucked in with his favorite pjs and his moon nightlight. Eyes creaked open as his friend looked up at him. 

  


“Stay here?”

  


Shawn rubbed one eye and nodded, smiling. “All night.”

  


Gus smiled too, then, and was asleep a second later.

  


He sat, silent, as he watched every breath in and out. He jerked when the door opened with a spear from the hallway fluorescence. He relaxed when he saw who it was.

  


“Dad.” His brow rose on one side and his voice became mocking. “I do believe you were sent to your room.”

  


His father worked the bulk of his wheelchair past the door. He was no longer dragging wires so he must have been cleared for peeing on his own. Shawn really hated that he knew that.

  


Only after the door was shut behind him did his father respond in a rough whisper. “Yeah, well so were you.”

  


Shawn stood when Henry started rolling himself across the floor but his dad waved him down. “I got it.”

  


Stubborn mule. Well Shawn was a stubborn mule too so he came by it honestly. God, he wished he didn't know that either.

  


The chair finally stopped in its old place on Shawn's right side. His dad looked down at Gus.

  


“How is he?”

  


Still healing, but improving. Lucid, but tired. “He's okay.”

  


His dad shifted forward; some of the fear lines leaving his forehead. He nodded once – a question rather than an affirmation. “And how are you?”

  


Shawn paused. He looked down at Gus; at each solid breath and the tiny curl of his lip at the dreams he was having. Of chasing bunnies through the flower filled fields...

  


His hand smoothed down the little rumple in the blanket.

  


“I'm perfect.”

End Notes:

Holy crap I finally finished one!!! THANK YOU so much all you amazing glorious readers and reviewers and also Woo and Tex and Peazy!!!  YOU ROCK STOCKINGED FEETS!!  


  
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.psychfic.com/viewstory.php?sid=3796>  



End file.
